Living on this street has always been synonymous with peace. My name is Lucas, and just like my routine, my life unfolds peacefully in a small town. I usually take long walks amidst nature, bask in the sun, and enjoy life as I work from home. However, my family is the opposite; they thrive on hustle, noise, and crowds. Personally, I don’t know how they manage it, but since the feeling is mutual, I let it be. Because of this, I moved here and adopted a cat to not feel so lonely, and it was one of the best choices I ever made.
Mr. Mutchkin was perfect, almost human-like in intelligence. He knew how to take care of his business in our backyard, burying it far away from home, and he even hunted some rats or other animals that might steal food (as I said, small town life). His company was comforting, especially on silent summer nights when I sat on the porch, gazing at the stars in the clear sky alongside him.
However, things began to change. A new family moved into the house next door: the Petersons. They were… normal. Too normal. That’s what bothered me. I saw them arriving in their moving truck. A father, a mother, a son, and a daughter. All impeccable, the father in a well-pressed suit, the mother with a radiant smile, wearing a flared dress and an apron; the son with his school backpack, a uniform from some baseball team, and the daughter in her princess dress. It was what one would expect from a movie family, like asking an AI to create “a family” without giving specific details. It was… somehow… eerie.
The following days were as usual, with Mr. Mutchkin patrolling the backyard and me working on my projects. However, I began to notice small changes. Mr. Mutchkin started to act more reclusive, skittish. He used to come running to greet me when I came home, but now he seemed to avoid my presence. Not just mine, he stopped visiting the yard as often; I even had to buy a litter box (since it had been a while since I had to worry about that). Initially, I attributed this to some minor incident or maybe the presence of the new neighbors, perhaps an indisposition. Speaking of the Petersons, well, I’m not one to pry or anything, but it was hard not to notice: they were rarely seen leaving the house, almost always keeping the curtains closed. At night, sometimes, I heard murmurs coming from their house, as if they were talking quietly. The last straw of oddity was when I saw Mr. Peterson sitting in the backyard, alone, on a full moon night. He was facing away from me, but his rigid posture and the way he remained motionless sent shivers down my spine. It seemed like he was staring fixedly into the darkness. Disturbing.
The next day, Mr. Mutchkin disappeared.
I was worried because although, as I mentioned, he did his patrols, they were always within our property, behind the fences, and he always came back every night to sleep at my feet. I decided to search for him around the neighborhood, calling his name in vain. I asked the neighbors (except the Petersons), but no one had seen anything. I was truly desperate.
I knocked on the door of the house next door, hoping to find some clue in the last place I wanted to be. Mr. Peterson answered, with his customary smile, hair clinically aligned, and mustache brushed. When I asked if they had seen my cat, he hesitated for a moment before responding.
“Oh, Mr. Mutchkin, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’ve seen him around here. But we’ll keep an eye out, okay? I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
His response was polite, but there was something off. He finished speaking and stood there, still, inert, looking at me. A strange feeling that something was wrong. Still, I thanked him and stepped back. Despite Mr. Peterson’s seemingly reassuring words, a sense of unease settled within me. His smile seemed forced, and his eyes moved rapidly, making me uncomfortable. I might be becoming paranoid, but something about that encounter wasn’t right.
I decided to follow my instinct, and that afternoon, when the street was deserted and the Petersons were out, I decided to investigate. I saw their car turning the corner at the end of the street, all four of them inside. Silence reigned in the house. I cautiously entered their backyard, feeling guilty for doing so, but the concern for Mr. Mutchkin and the thought of what might be happening to him outweighed my hesitation. The house was as immaculate inside as it was outside, with furniture and details that seemed to have come out of a home decor magazine. It was such an artificial perfection that I felt like I was in a sitcom set.
As I rummaged through the rooms of the house, however, the feeling of being watched haunted me. Every sound made me shudder, every shadow made me jump. I looked through the living room, kitchen, even ventured into the bedrooms, where I was disturbed to see what Mr. and Mrs. Peterson had hidden: numerous family portraits. I almost closed the door in shock when I saw that the gaze of all of them was directed towards the door. I began to notice something strange about them; in all of them, the people were the same but… the surroundings weren’t. “Wow,” you might be thinking, “What’s so strange about that? Wouldn’t it be weird to have thousands of photos with the SAME setting?” and you would be right, but this case was exceptional. The photos seemed very, very old. There were things from the 80s, 70s, 60s; I even found a hand-painted portrait from that time before the photos. And in all of them, they were the same, as if they didn’t age.
It was when a noise snapped me out of this trance. A muffled, low but unmistakable sound: a meow! I was tense, but also relieved to hear the meow. It was proof that Mr. Mutchkin was somewhere around. I followed the sound, and it led me to a fearful place, one that I had been deliberately avoiding: the basement. The meows intensified as my steps approached. I don’t know how many of you have cats, but they meow differently depending on the situation, and my little feline friend was meowing in fear; it was urgent. I opened the creaky door, greeted by a gust of hot, humid air, a strong smell of mold. The stairs creaked under my feet as I descended slowly, my accelerated breath echoing in the emptiness.
I followed the meow, now clearer. I supposed he was huddled in a corner, scared, so I began to head towards the back of the room. But then, my eyes started to adjust, slowly, to the darkness… I stopped walking. My heart raced. I had to appear calm, but now, panic had consumed my mind. My chest began to heave as I breathed in more and more of that intoxicating air. I saw, with the little light I had, a figure, strange, contorted, but much larger than a cat. It had something… resembling a head, which began to turn towards me. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I felt they were on me. I saw it move, opening its mouth, and then a meow sound echoed from its throat, this time I could hear it clearly, and it was much deeper, distorted…
“I-I’ll be back, Mr. Mutchkin,” I stuttered as I backed away, still facing the thing. But when I saw it move, I ran without even looking back, slamming the basement door and jumping out of the side window of the house as fast as I could.
However, my great panic came now: As I jumped over the Petersons’ fence and finally entered my backyard, I saw a furry, small, curious figure on the balcony railing. It was Muchkin, wagging his fluffy tail. He looked at me, tilting his head in curiosity. I looked back, seeing the fence, imagining what was on the other side. I ran upstairs, to where my cat was. He snuggled against my hand, purring.
“Where have you been, buddy?”
My phone vibrated. It was a message from the lady from the next street, Lourdes.
“Hey dear, your cat showed up here this morning but I couldn’t reach you, I gave him food and helped him over the fence. I saw the lights turning on, are you home? Is he okay?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Lourdes, thank you so much,” I closed the phone.
Now me and Muchkin are here, on the second floor. The sun has set, and now we only have the pale light of the moon. It’s one of those warm nights, but we’re not looking up at the sky, but down. The Petersons’ car is parked in front of the house. They’ve been there for almost an hour now, sitting motionless like dolls, except for Mr. Peterson, who is now staring directly at us…